


Dead-End in Front

by Lagerstatte



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Blindness, Canon Universe, Gang Rape, Graphic Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-09-27 09:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9997643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lagerstatte/pseuds/Lagerstatte
Summary: Ignis is attacked after the events in Altissia. It is proof of his inadequacy, he thinks. He cannot be inadequate.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt over at the kinkmeme: https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/841.html?thread=810057#cmt810057
> 
> Thank you for reading! No beta but will gladly take concrit.

The man who was their liaison with the Altissian government had never disclosed his rank, but Ignis suspected he was a diplomatic service officer of a rather juvenile position. This was, of course, terribly improper – both the nondisclosure as well as the lack of anyone at all more senior – but given the circumstances it was also rather arrogant to begrudge the more important staff on more important matters. Even when it became clear that the service officer was a service officer because of his appalling inefficiency and general inability to communicate, rather than anything else like lack of years to climb rank. (Ignis could have done better when he was fifteen. Not that he could any more, though.) So, one late afternoon when it seemed that they were going to be missing dinner, instead of sitting tight and hoping the matter would fix itself, Ignis double checked his clothes and hair and sunglasses, and set out into the city to find them their own food.

Gladio and Prompto were out helping the people of Altissia recover what they could from the ruins of their city; Noct was recovering in bed – or, at least, Ignis hoped he was. Noct had only woken yesterday and was still far too weak to be exerting himself. None of them knew about this little excursion, and Ignis planned on keeping it that way.

Of course, the most sensible option by far would have been to find a member of staff at the hotel to inquire after their missing dinner. Failing that, it'd be to head into the government offices and try his hand at bureaucracy. He was distinctive both in appearance and the names he was attached to, and of course he had the practice and skill at it. He would no doubt be successful at the government offices – getting there by himself would be the challenging part.

The thought of it sitting there in the offices, people all around him doing the sort of jobs he'd never be able to do again, stuck in his throat like a fishbone. And he didn't want to remain in the hotel. He went out, like it were old times, and the city weren’t in ruins, and the food not just what tins and packets had been salvaged from the carnage, the fresh produce coming in from nearby farms and storage getting snatched up before it made it to the central market no matter how inflated the prices. As if he weren’t blind and fumbling and aching all over, a non-stop pain like a little stone wedged inside his skull, at the top of his neck.

He'd asked three people for the directions to the central market, an emergency set-up by the government that had swelled ten times over with locals wanting to trade their bags of rice for medication, for soap and clothes and pet food. It wasn't that he'd forgotten the first person's directions, just that perhaps he hadn't quite trusted it, or the second person's directions either, and, well, if all three people agreed on the best route then he probably shouldn't have to worry.

Except that–

'Oh, sir,' a man said, and it took a moment and a gentle touch on his upper arm before he realised the man was talking to him. 'That’s a dead-end in front of us; the road's blocked.'

Ignis paused. He was certain that this was the correct route, but even within the last few hours it could have been obstructed by something or other. A building may have collapsed, or the road could be closed to move rubble or goods. Or it could be a trick, an attempt to mug him by getting him onto one of the deserted side streets.

He hadn’t brought all their money with him, just enough to buy dinner, and there was little else on him he’d miss if it were stolen. His phone – well, that would be unfortunate, but hardly devastating. He did have a spare. There was no information on it that would be disastrous in the wrong hands, even assuming he couldn't wipe it remotely, which he could.

'Sir?'

‘Ah,’ Ignis said. ‘Thank you. You wouldn’t happen to know a way around it, would you? I'm heading to the market.’

‘Of course, no problem, there’s a street parallel you can go on…’ The touch on Ignis’ arm disappeared then appeared again at his elbow, guiding him gently to his left.

Ignis stumbled as the pavement gave way to road, but managed to catch the little rise on the other side of the road with his stick. Their Altissian service officer had promised him a proper cane but as of yet nothing had been procured, so he made do with the walking stick Prompto had picked up on the first day.

The street they’d been on was quiet. This one was next to silent. The air tasted of dust and something foul that was leaking into the canals from broken pipes below street level. The man beside him made a noise as if he were about to say something but changed his mind. Ignis could hear him breathe very clearly, and the sound of his clothes as he moved, and his footsteps. Machinery in the distance, moving something heavy. Something crashing far away. Gulls. They turned right and left his planned route.

They were walking very slowly due to his small, shuffling steps; Ignis wondered if it was annoying. He wondered if he should say something, even if just small-talk. He kept his mouth shut and concentrated on walking that much faster, trying his best to trust that the man would tell him were he about to bump into anything. He needed to focus on breathing properly, to exhale away the anxiety creeping over him from walking blind. It was not working. He couldn't trust the man. He shouldn’t have come out here on his own. He should have gone to the government offices. He shouldn’t have even left the Leville. What had he been thinking? Of course he wasn't capable.

There were the footsteps of another person was walking behind them, catching up, and Ignis tried to focus on that. A man or a heavy-footed woman. On Ignis’ left, perhaps. It was hard to tell. He would need to become better at that, and quickly. He’d get Gladio and Prompto to help him practice–

Agony. His head felt split open with agony, the ground rough beneath his hands and knees. Nothing but the roaring of blood in his ears and the pain, swallowing him whole. Very distantly he felt the hot wetness of blood on the back of his neck. Even more distantly, abstract puzzlement, and disappointment.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t quite work out his limbs, couldn’t hear, couldn’t see what was happening. His head was spinning and for a moment he was certain that he was falling – except no, he could feel the ground beneath his cheek, his chest, so he couldn't be falling unless the whole street was collapsing into the water below. There was pressure on his back, on his shoulders, and he couldn’t seem to get to his feet again. He realised his eyes were screwed shut (his eye – for a split-second his brain saw fit to remind him he only had one eye now), because the agony made it feel like it might burst and dribble out of their sockets. He couldn’t move his neck for the pain like a dagger in the base of his skull. He'd lost his spectacles – no, his sunglasses. The urge to find them and put them back on swelled in him even as he knew it was entirely illogical.

Something in his mouth – a gritty wad of cloth – and he realised he was upright, probably, when had that happened? Something solid beneath his feet. Hands on his upper arms, half pulling, half dragging him. They didn’t want to just mug him, then.

He’d dropped his stick. He summoned a knife in his right hand, though he could barely feel it, barely force his fingers to hold it tight. With his left hand he reached out, found loose fabric, and used the weight of the body he pulled towards him to aim. He moved reflexively: swing the blade, do less damage than a well aimed stab, but be more likely to damage at all than with a poorly aimed stab. A scream – a man, approaching middle age – shouting all around him – there were at least several others surrounding them – Ignis struck out again and his knife wedged into the man’s body, probably caught between two ribs, and Ignis let go rather than waste time and effort trying to pull it out, summoning another in his left hand as his right was seized – he swung, caught something but barely, swung again at whoever was holding his right wrist but met nothing. The grip disappeared. He spat the gag from his mouth. His spells and potion stock had all been depleted (except one potion, but that last one was for Noct, only ever Noct). If only–

Something hit him on the back, across his shoulder blades. His knife dropped from his nerveless fingers; he resisted the urge to find and pick it back up. Unsummon it, summon again, both of them, one in each hand, the floor spinning and he felt sick and the roaring in his ears and his own panting breath meant he couldn’t hear where anyone was, couldn’t do anything but stand there, waiting, swaying, _helpless_ – he couldn't see, he couldn't see and he needed to see and the panic was clawing him to shreds–

They hit his legs this time, the backs of his knees, and he went down awkwardly onto one side. He scrambled up again, swinging out around him, meeting nothing but air. He could hear them talk but couldn’t make himself understand the words. His head was alight with pain, slicing down every nerve, stabbing into the backs of his eyes, down his spine. A moment’s pause. Concentrate, he had to concentrate, but all there was in his head was panic and emotion and uselessness. Someone was angry, was trying to ask for help keeping Anuris alive, someone else said  _ shut the fuck up he’s already dead _ .

A blow to Ignis’ upper arm, not hard enough to crack the bone but more than sufficient to force him to drop his knife. He cradled his arm to his chest, breath a hiss through his clenched jaws. The sound of smashing glass made him flinch and twist to face the source, but nothing more came of it. What was that? Behind him, a crash of something metal on metal. He spun around to face it. Behind him again, more breaking glass. His thoughts felt as fragmented as whatever the men were smashing up; nothing matched up, the start of each thought trailing off and refused to connect to the correct end. Ignis gritted his teeth. Think. Wasn’t that his job? His whole reason for being here. He should know this. What were they doing? They were–

The sound of something heavy being dragged.

His knife was trembling, arm straining with the effort of holding it up in front of him when every bone in his body ached, begged just to stop, battle stance ready when he knew and they knew it was entirely useless: a single, tiny point of defence with every other side wide open to attack. It was pathetic. Humiliating in its futility.

A sound, the stamp of a boot – Ignis spun around to face it but again, that was it. He could try to break out of their circle around him, except that he was disorientated and more than likely to run straight into the side of a building, or trip straight over onto his face. He could shout for help, except that his throat was tight and dry and if he tried that they’d no doubt finish him off and run before anyone arrived, if anyone were within hearing distance and would want to intervene to help in the first place.

Ignis shifted, trying to find his balance and failing. He could feel himself sway. Think. Think. What did they want? Not his material possessions, they could have taken those after bringing him down the first time. They couldn’t presume that if let him go now he might identify them and put them at risk later, but he was apparently valuable enough that even after he’d killed one of them they hadn’t given up. Or was it just that they counted their number as so invaluable as not to matter? They’d been trying to drag him somewhere. Did they want information on Noct? A ransom? They couldn’t be Imperials. Had someone hired them for the job or were they doing it for themselves? Maybe they just wanted to hurt someone and it didn’t matter who.

Still couldn’t think. There was not enough information. He could try to reason with them, tell them his friends would pay far more than what he had on him for his safe release. He doubted he could escape – couldn’t do it without killing them all first, couldn’t kill them all even though he needed to. They were probably just civilians – criminals to be sure, but hardly beasts or daemons.

His heart was racing. He felt sick. He shouldn’t have left the Leville. 

Something hard clipped his left elbow, making him stumble as he pulled away.

Gods, his head hurt. He was tired. He could feel the stickiness of blood soaking into his collar and matting his hair into tufts, running down his face from old, broken open scabs, dripping off his chin. He’d already lost too much blood when he’d lost his eyes; he couldn’t afford this.

No… not quite. What did it matter if he lost too much blood? He couldn’t support Noct either way.

A man stamped to his left and Ignis flinched towards him, adjusting his stance, redundant muscle memory. Laughter behind him, rough and wild, high on adrenaline. Ignis only just managed to stop himself throwing his knife at the source. He’d only miss.

Another hit, a glancing blow on the same spot as the last time, then another on his right elbow, immediately afterwards. An emotion swelled in Ignis’ throat, threatening to choke him, but he couldn’t tell which emotion it was.

When would they tire of this? He was sick of it. He was sick to the back teeth of all of it. Let the street cave in and kill every last one of them.

When Ignis came to he was on the ground, his hands clasped, palms flat together, tied with thick rope. No chance of summoning any weapons, then; he kicked and twisted despite the pain as he was hauled up, dragged by his arms along the road, up onto the pavement, in through an open door. Smooth wooden floorboards, the lingering smell of dog and laundry, distinctive even through the reek of blood in his nose.

He was rolled face-down onto something soft – a mattress on the floor. Oh. So this was what they wanted.

Didn't they know how much he was worth? He knew more of Lucis' state secrets than anyone alive, save Cor Leonis. He was the King of Lucis' advisor, the one Noct trusted most to guide him, inform him, keep him on the right path. There was little Noct wouldn't pay or do for his safety.

And here he was, about to be gang-raped on a dirty mattress in an abandoned house, for no reason other than having the gall to be an appealing victim.

His hands were secured above his head, one of his legs pulled straight and a rope tied around his ankle, keeping it outstretched. Kicking with his free leg, Ignis tried to get it under him for the leverage to pull at his bindings, but something heavy on his back held him down. Hands on his neck, squeezing his throat as his belt was undone and his trousers and underwear pulled down around his ankles. His shoes were yanked off, trousers fully off except where they tangled around the ankle of his bound leg.

He couldn’t cry – he was physically unable to produce tears, now. He’d realised that very early on, when the pain had driven him what felt like half-insane, when he’d refused additional medication because someone else must surely need it more, when two days later when he’d turned up at Gladio’s bedroom door at night and begged for it – he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t force food or water down his throat, couldn’t even think for the pain – but by then there’d been none left.

He couldn’t shout – the hand around his throat made sure of that. Ignis wasn’t entirely sure he would do either, cry or shout, even if he could, but something was howling inside him, tearing at the walls of his body. The gag was forced back into his mouth, this time tied properly around his head, then the hand around his neck left and Ignis shuddered with what air he could manage through his nose, blowing blood bubbles with each rasping breath.

Hands groped at him, a pair on his arse, and cold lube and fingers pushing against then inside of him. Ignis bit down on his gag, hard, grinding his forehead into the mattress. He’d done this before – not like this, but still – he knew it’d hurt. His body was a knotted ball of pain, held together with a spider’s web of self-control. He could barely perform normality for Noct, Gladio and Prompto, barely keep it together in public, and now? A man sat on his upper thighs, skin-on-skin; he was hairy, and slightly damp with sweat. Ignis clenched up, even though he knew it’d be better if he didn’t; he could hardly breathe, and when the man pushed in he couldn’t help the sound that came out, muffled through the gag. Not even a word – just a noise, like an animal.

He couldn’t do it. It hurt. He just wanted it to stop. He had so little left, so  _ fucking little _ , and now they were taking even this from him.

The man thrusting into him – short, irregular motions, stabbing pain – leant forwards and put his hands on Ignis’ shoulders, shuffling to get a better position. The other men were jeering, laughing, and Ignis didn’t need to try to drown out their words; the roaring in his ears, pain thumping in beat to his staccato heart, did it for him. He heard the sound of a shutter on a camera – a low-quality digital copy, not the true mechanical click – someone had their phone out, Ignis realised. They were taking photos of this.

Some time after the first man had finished and the second started, grunting, leaning low over Ignis’ back so his flabby stomach brushed against him with every thrust, Ignis realised that the rope tying his hands together was coming loose. His wrists were rubbed raw and bound as tight as ever, but his swollen fingers now had the space to wriggle against each other.

The third man was bony, stroking his hands down Ignis’ back, and whispered endearments into his ear as he applied more lube to counter the tacky blood.

Ignis gutted him with the knife he summoned, the smallest he had, knots worked just loose enough to fit the hilt between his palms without breaking the delicate bones there. The blade sliced his fingers from the way he was holding it, but it also cut the rope tying his wrists to the ground and then the man’s stomach with ease. The man screamed, and kept screaming as he disappeared from Ignis’ back, and the blood pouring onto Ignis told him that he’d severed an artery and could therefore concentrate on the rope tying his hands together, then the one on his ankle, and then the first, second and fourth men.

The first man tackled Ignis and received a hole in his throat for his troubles, a long slash that Ignis felt going through the cartilage of his windpipe. The man fell, wheezing and gurgling on the floor as he suffocated, joining in with the third whose screams had turned to frightened sobs, getting weaker with every second.

Ignis backed away until he hit a wall. The two unharmed men weren’t attacking, staying silent – at least as silent as to be unheard over the first and third men, and Ignis’ own panting. Ignis cut away the gag, yanking it from his mouth and tossing it to one side. The fabric had dried to his tongue, leaving fibres stuck to his teeth. His whole body was shaking as he stood, back against the wall, holding his knives in front of him, and he couldn’t make it stop.

After a long moment, and the dying men had gone quiet, Ignis could hear the remaining two whisper – panicked, hushed, trying to egg the other into being the first to attack. Why didn’t they just leave? There was the sound of a very distant crash and the men went silent for a second. Ignis swallowed. Blood in his mouth. He didn’t think it was all his own.

Ah – he must be between them and the door. That’s why they didn’t leave. He could escape himself, then, but trying to find the door and then opening it if it were closed would require his hands, and if the men felt suddenly brave in that moment of clear vulnerability – no. Trying to escape wasn’t a viable option. But neither could this stalemate last forever. Even them throwing books at his head would be enough to distract him.

Ignis’ hands were still shaking as he lowered them, and he leant back against the wall, letting his head rest against it. His body would not stop trembling. His knives felt each as heavy as Gladio’s double handed swords. After a long moment his legs folded neatly beneath him and he slid into a crouch, bracing himself with his hands and knees on the floor in front of him, bowing his head. In this new position his breathing struggled, deepening into wet, rasping coughs. Blood ran to and dripped off the end of his nose.

A noise as one of the men finally moved, and something smashed over Ignis’ back – but his head was down, out of the way of damage, and he was braced so he wouldn’t collapse. Half a second later he launched himself forward, tackling the man – aiming for his waist but missing, but they fell together into a heap on the floor anyway. Ignis stabbed him in the chest, again and again, losing count of how many times, and only stopped when a hand gripped his wrist, holding it back. He swung out with his other knife. There was screaming, pleading to stop. Blood on his hands, soaking into his sleeves, down his front, on his face, wet, hot, a blow to Ignis’ neck and another to his face, sheer agony at it glanced off his ruined left eye. The man below him was struggling; the man to his left he clung on to, trying to stab as he tried to pull away. Ignis was pulled up with him, and they fell together, rolled over into a piece of furniture, hard, solid. Ignis twisted so that he landed on top, and sliced open the man’s throat.

The sudden silence only made his own breathing all the more deafening. Ignis stumbled as he got up, unsummoning his knives even as he dropped them to the ground. He tried to wipe his face but his hands were sticky, soaking wet, and trembling far too hard. His fingers bumped against his scars and the pain was enough to make him gag. He’d lost his underwear, trousers and shoes, he realised dully, and he knelt back down on the floor, hands and knees, reaching out around himself to try and find them.

He couldn’t find them.

After a long time he gave up, and yanked the trousers from one of the dead men – the bony one, whose trousers were loose around his ankles – and pulled those on instead.


	2. Chapter 2

What next, then?  
  
It stank, but that might just be his own blood up his nose and down his throat. Ignis shuffled to the side, finding the wall and leaning on it as he picked his way around the edge of the room until he found a door. Out the door, left down the corridor, until smooth tiles met his bare feet. Counters and a fridge and the other unmistakable appliances of the kitchen. He found the sink but the tap didn't work. Right. No water. He should have expected that. Ignis paused, swallowed the noise curling in his throat, then continued his search. The kettle had a little water left in the bottom and he dipped the tea-towel he found hanging in front of the oven door in it, using the wet cloth to wipe his face and hands. Not good enough but all he had, for now. The wounds around his eye were still bleeding, so he held the tea-towel to them, trying gingerly to apply pressure and wincing at his own feeble attempt.  
  
He'd have to get tested, only he doubted that that sort of testing was available. Not when the hospitals were full of patients with more immediate concerns. Later, then.  
  
He'd killed five citizens of Accordo on their own territory whilst representing Noctis and Lucis. The political landscape was such that the government wouldn't care beyond wanting it buried – or at least, going by what they knew of Claustra, they would care but couldn’t do anything about it beyond burying it – but what if the men had families who insisted on justice? What if there'd been witnesses?  
  
The fridge was off – no electricity – but Ignis found a carton of something in a cupboard and opened it, taking a gulp to rinse his mouth out with, spitting into the sink. Cherry juice: cheap, overly sweet stuff, and no better for the taste of blood he washed out with it. His stomach bucked without warning and he vomited, violently, clinging to the counter in order to aim for the sink. Concussion, probably. Deep breaths, take it slow. The acid smell of the vomit cut through the blood and cherry juice and Ignis threw up again, and again, until he was dry heaving on the floor and gasping from the pain of it.  
  
When the dry heaves finally eased off Ignis sat down, back against the fridge. Okay. Fine. What next? He had to think but he couldn’t.  
  
His phone. He should call someone. He couldn't get back on his own, no point beating about the bush. His phone was in his trouser pockets.  
  
The other phone – the sound of a camera shutter – the man who'd taken photos of him. Ignis forced himself into a crouch and stood, shaky, stumbling over nothing as he returned to the living room. The wood floors were wet, soaking into his trousers as he knelt next to a body, searching the pockets. Keys, change, and here – a phone.  
  
Ignis found the second and third men easily, still warm and wet on the floor, and picked up their phones as he went along. His hands were covered in blood again. He couldn’t find the fourth man. Where was he? Had be been alive and left when Ignis had been in the kitchen?  
  
There had been four men here, hadn't there?  
  
He couldn't find his own clothes and phone either, crawling back and forth across the room in careful lines, making sure to get every inch. Oh – here was the fourth, curled up, half under the coffee table. Or was it the second? He couldn't quite tell.  
  
Throat squeezing, he searched the man's pockets and found a phone – the fourth man, then, since he had the phones of the other three. Good. Except, hadn’t there been five at one point? No – or, yes, but he’d killed one of them in the street. This was correct.   
  
With the photographic evidence on the phone it would be considerably easier to plead his actions as self-defence, if it ever came to it. It would protect Noctis as well as himself. It would mean showing the photos to other people. To Noctis, Gladio and Prompto. Should he destroy them now? But–  
  
He couldn't think. Trying to do anything was like trying to wade through treacle.  
  
Pocketing the last phone Ignis crawled over to the sofa and sat down on it. The fabric felt clean and normal and entirely unreal beneath his hands. He traced the embroidery pattern on a pillow, not able to visualise the pattern. No. Concentrate on the problem at hand.  
  
He needed to contact someone – Gladio – and ask to be picked up. He likely had concussion, if not a more serious head injury. What were the symptoms of concussion? Headaches, loss of consciousness, memory loss, dizziness, inability to concentrate, vomiting. Well, he had the last three, that was clear. Had he lost consciousness or was missing memories? Maybe. Probably, if he couldn’t tell. Headaches – his head always ached, these days.  
  
Where was his phone? In his – in his trouser pocket. That was it. But he didn’t have his trousers.  
  
It was like a puzzle, a word game, the answer close enough to taste but still out of reach. He knew it shouldn’t be this hard, and yet...  
  
The urge to lie down was tugging at him. He could, but he shouldn’t. If he couldn’t find his phone here he should go outside and try to ask someone if he could borrow theirs. He knew Gladio’s number by heart, so that was not a problem. Whether anyone would lend him their phone in the first place was the real question.  
  
He should try, anyway. Staggering up he found the door, turned right, and found the street through the open front door. Now – left or right? Listening, he couldn’t tell if either way was more populated than the other.  
  
Choosing left, Ignis made his way down the street, one hand on the wall of the houses, half guiding him, half propping him up. The other still held the now-wet tea-towel to his face. He felt like he had weights around his ankles, both pulling him down and tangling his step. The stone was cold and rough under his bare feet.  
  
Why was he crawling back to them? He couldn’t even defend himself. What did he have to contribute, any more?  
  
Where else did he have to go?  
  
He must be walking the opposite way he’d come from, since the street seemed to be dragging on and on and he still couldn’t hear the sounds of the market. The pavement was pretty clear of rubble, and the houses intact at ground level at least, but no one was around. No water, no electricity. How much longer until he found someone – or rather, someone found him? And someone charitable, no less.  
  
Ignis stumbled on something, a plastic bag, and he stopped for a moment before forcing himself on, kicking the bag off his foot. It must be about seven in the evening; the air was starting to get chilly. The tall buildings meant that the street was near-permanently in shade, so he couldn’t feel the disappearing sun, but he thought it felt like sunset. Or, perhaps, because he was without anything to confirm or deny it either way, it only felt so strongly so because he’d already presumed it was, and not for any external truth in the matter. Really, he told himself, he had little idea of the time.  
  
The sound of something across the street from him. Something scraping, there for a moment then gone. Ignis froze, heart making itself known as a heavy pulse in his throat. Silence. He swore he’d heard something. Maybe it was his imagination. Or maybe it was some sort of rubbish being blown about, or an unbalanced piece of debris falling. It was entirely likely to be harmless at worst, very possibly actively helpful.  
  
No one came forward, either to help or finish him off, and Ignis turned his head uselessly in the direction the noise had come from. ‘Excuse me,’ he called, and shocked himself at the gravel-rough sound of his own voice.  
  
No answer, anyway. Either nothing, or someone not willing to help, and therefore he should carry on.  
  
The first step onwards was more of a stumble, the second to catch himself from falling after the first. Three, four, five. Keep going. He was exhausted. His head was swimming as he kept walking, bowed so his chin bumped against his chest. His feet were dragging, and his shoulder kept knocking against the wall of the houses as he swayed side to side. It would be so easy to stop for a moment, sit down, take a couple of minutes to catch his breath. But he had to get back to Noct. Even if he did have nothing left to give.  
  
One foot in front of the other. He could do this. Just get back. That’s all he needed to think about for now. Cross the other bridges when he got to them.  
  
It was getting colder. He was sure of it.  
  
The street ended, and Ignis followed it around a right corner. There were railings now, then after a little bit, some more wall. The long stretch of glass in a shop window, then another, then another, then another. This one’s window was smashed. The ones after that were still intact. There was a sandwich board that almost tripped him up, and then an area cordoned off with velvet rope. Low troughs with some kind of hedge plant to navigate around, and without the wall to lean on–  
  
Ignis fell, a slow-motion stumble over a bench, onto his hands and knees. He managed to get up, quickly if not elegantly, ignoring the way the pain jolted up his bones. The embarrassment was worse. His own breathing sounded deafeningly loud as he stood there, trying to work out which direction to go in to find the wall again.  
  
How could such a populated city be completely empty for streets and streets? Or was it that people were here, they were just avoiding him?  
  
‘Hey,’ a voice said, from a little distance away, as if summoned by his thoughts. An older woman, by the sounds of it, but Ignis’ ears were ringing and he barely managed to lift his head to look in her direction. ‘Excuse me. Are you okay? Do you need me to call someone to get you to a hospital? Home?’  
  
Her voice was concerned, but strong and not panicky, and an instant rush of relief flowed through Ignis. It still took a good few seconds to parse her questions, but when he did Ignis nodded once, stopping when the sudden movement caused a dagger of pain to slice down the back of his skull. ‘Thank you, yes please,’ he said, hoarse.  
  
‘Do you want me to dial?’ The soft sound of footsteps, the woman’s voice a little closer than before. ‘Sit down, head between your knees.’  
  
Ignis sat down on the floor, but not before reciting Gladio’s number. He scooted back so he was leaning sideways against the bench he’d fallen over earlier, and rested his forehead against it. The polished surface was cold, hard, and smelt only very faintly of wood. He couldn’t hear the woman over his own ragged breathing. He wondered if she thought the blood soaking his clothes was his own.  
  
‘Hello?’ the woman said and Ignis almost lifted his head before he realised that she must be on the phone. ‘This is kind of sudden but I found your friend, he’s in a bad way – sorry, what’s your name? Excuse me?’  
  
Ignis tried to blink back the exhaustion with his good eye – his eye that was not a ruin of raw flesh. He was dimly aware that he shouldn’t fall asleep, something about head injuries, but damned if he could remember what, exactly.  
  
‘No, he’s – listen, he’s pretty beat up so you should probably take him to the hospital – he didn’t say–’  
  
Given that it was Gladio on the other end, she was probably receiving a grilling. Ignis felt vaguely guilty for putting her in the firing line like that.  
  
‘Brown hair, tall, he’s, uh, blind–’  
  
Well, at least Gladio would know it’s him, not Noct wandering the streets, getting into losing fights. He listened as the woman rattled off an address, shifting his position and wincing as the tea-towel tore at the skin around his eye. It’d got stuck into the scabs forming there. Damn.  
  
‘Here,’ the woman said. ‘Hey – here. The phone. Your friend wants to talk to you.’  
  
Something cold pressed against his hand and Ignis flinched, a violent, exaggerated movement into the bench, making it scrape across the stone floor.  
  
‘Sorry!’ the woman said. ‘Sorry, look, here’s the phone, I’m holding it right in front of your left hand.’  
  
Ignis reached out the few centimetres and took the phone, fumbling with it to find out which was the right way up.  
  
‘Gladio?’ His voice was barely a whisper. He swallowed but his throat was dry, still sticky from the cherry juice.  
  
‘Iggy! Shit, what the fuck’s going on?’ Gladio’s voice all but boomed out of the speaker. ‘I’m on my way, are you in danger?’  
  
‘No, I’m fine,’ he managed, and was cut off.  
  
‘Like fuck you’re fine!’ Gladio was running, from the sounds of it. ‘Look, hold on, the roads are all caved in where you are and there’s no driving anywhere, but I’m on my way, should be twenty minutes, tops. Prompto’s with me, he could go fetch supplies, I don’t know, bandages–’  
  
He was just speaking for the sake of it, Ignis knew, which wasn’t a good sign. ‘Listen.’ He went for firm, and managed it, just. Severe was a bit beyond his range, for now. ‘I’m out of danger, and need you to pick me up. I’m simply lost. That’s all.’  
  
Gladio made a noise, but the exact meaning of it was somewhat lost over the phone. It wasn’t a sound of confidence, though, that much was clear. That was justified, Ignis supposed – moving his head at all reminded him very sharply that he was not simply lost. Gladio, too, knew him more than well enough to know that his pride wouldn’t suffer this phone call unless he was well and truly unable to get back alone, and being simply lost was not such an occasion.  
  
For a moment Ignis listened to the sound of Gladio running – mostly the crackle of air in the speakers, rhythmic as the phone moved in Gladio’s hand, in time with his long stride.  
  
Ignis handed the phone back to the woman. ‘Thank you,’ he said, automatically. He should ask her her name, or say something further, explain his situation, but his brain and mouth don’t seem all that connected any more.  
  
‘It’s fine, honestly,’ the woman said. ‘This place is enough of a–’ her voice caught, then she continued. ‘Doesn’t need people bleeding out in the streets. You want anything? I have water.’  
  
It was a generous offer. The water pipes to much of the city had been burst, and for all the surrounding canals, clean drinking water was in limited supply. Ignis was desperately thirsty, and the blood on his skin was dried and itching and disgustingly unclean, but then he could hardly use her drinking water to wash himself. And then he realised he’d taken too long to reply, so he turned his head into the bench, trying to find a slightly less uncomfortable position.  
  
‘Hey,’ the woman said. ‘Hey, try to stay awake. You have a head injury?’  
  
Ignis made a noise of agreement. ‘It’s not all mine,’ he said. ‘The blood.’ He regretted saying that as soon as it was out – what a thing to admit – but he could hardly take it back now.  
  
‘Oh. Yeah. I guessed.’ She laughed, a short, strained sort of chuckle, far from brimming with humour but not entirely lacking it, either.  
  
‘So,’ she said. ‘What happened?’  
  
What happened indeed? Had all they wanted him for, in the end, been – his thoughts shied away. He didn’t want to think about it. They’d taken his food and money, and phone, and that’s what he’d tell the others. That’s what had happened.  
  
‘Hey,’ the woman said, but Ignis ignored it.  
  
He must have dozed off, because Gladio had said twenty minutes and here Prompto was already, a flurry of limbs and panting all over Ignis’ face as he caught his breath and tried to speak at the same time. ‘Iggy, hang in there, buddy, hang in there, Gladio’s almost here, don’t die–’ his voice was approaching a panicked wail and Ignis forced himself to sit up and feel his way up Prompto’s arm to grasp him by the shoulder.  
  
‘Calm down!’ Ignis hoped Prompto didn’t notice how the second word cracked a little. ‘Nobody is dying here.’  
  
‘Right, yeah, no dying,’ Prompto said. There was the unmistakable racket of Gladio running towards them. ‘Don’t worry Specs, we–’  
  
Prompto stopped abruptly, and it took Ignis a second to work out why.  
  
‘Simply lost, my ass,’ Gladio said, out of breath but still thunderously loud, interrupting before Ignis could say anything. His breathing, adding to Prompto’s, moved right up in Ignis’ space. ‘Where are you hurt?’  
  
‘My head,’ Ignis said, trying to stop himself from turning away and failing. ‘Concussion, I believe. Otherwise merely some bruises.’  
  
‘I’ll believe that when I see it,’ Gladio said, a growl, and grabbed Ignis, one arm behind Ignis’ back, the other under his knees. He lifted him up effortlessly, holding him pressed to his chest. ‘We’re going to the hospital. And on the way you can explain to me exactly why you thought waltzing around the city, alone, in your condition, was a fan-fucking-tastic idea.’  
  
It was not dignified, being carried in this way, and the sudden movement upwards made Ignis’ stomach threaten to rebel again, though he managed to keep it in control. Gladio’s phrasing – _your condition,_ indeed – left much to be desired. And Ignis really ought to thank the woman. She might even have saved his life and he hadn’t thanked her properly; he didn’t even know her name or tell her his, but Gladio was moving and the sway of his steps and the heat of him, the sheer strength and aching familiarity of his body soothed away Ignis’ protests. It was almost as well that he was blind, since he was sure the three of them were making a head-turning procession, and he’d had quite enough humiliation for one day, thank you.  
  
‘Well?’ It seemed like Gladio was worked up enough that he was going to keep going until he got an answer. ‘Aren’t you meant to be the clever one here? Did you get your brains smashed out with your eyes?’  
  
‘H-hey!’ That was Prompto. ‘Don’t say that!’  
  
‘We need to be a team!’ Gladio’s voice washed over Ignis, strangely calming. It helped that it was being directed outwards, probably at Prompto, and not down at him. ‘His Highness is sulking in bed, you go out without telling anyone – let me guess, to buy dinner, and walking around with a huge sign over your head screaming _attack me, I’m helpless_ , what do you know, someone tries to mug you, you shank them, and now what? You’re brained, again, wanted for murder of a citizen, when you damned well should be back in your rooms, and any one of us could have told you what a fucking stupid idea that was!’  
  
Ignis very almost said _five. Five citizens,_ but kept his mouth shut. Best to just let Gladio wear himself out then talk when they were both more up to intelligent discussion.  
  
He could hear the sounds of the city again, now. People talking, shouting, machinery, the sound of stone being broken and moved. A young kid was crying: low, drawn out sobs, exhausted.  
  
A hand found his upper arm and shook it gently. ‘Iggy, Iggy, hey,’ Prompto said, barely a whisper. ‘You okay there?’  
  
Gladio grunted. ‘Brat, stop getting under my feet.’  
  
‘I just thought–’  
  
‘He’s fine.’  
  
‘Fine? Really? Fine? Because he sure doesn’t look fine to me. He looks bad – terrible – _real_ terrible. How am I supposed to know he hasn’t – he’s not–’  
  
‘He probably swooned from the embarrassment of being picked up like a lady,’ Gladio said. ‘Now back off!’  
  
It’d probably be worth breaking them up before poor Prompto got any more distraught, but Ignis lacked the energy. He kept his eyes closed and body limp.  
  
The hospital visit lasted six hours, over five of them spent sitting in the waiting area with the rest of the ill and injured. Half-way through a nurse, sounding on her last legs, took him to a separate room to unstick the tea-towel from his face, clean the wound and apply real bandages, then deposit him back in the waiting area. The floor in the room with the CT scanner was slightly sticky. Gladio had refused to put Ignis down on their way into the hospital, but at least he hadn’t tried to carry him in and lay him on the scanner bed itself.  
  
It was four in the morning by the time they made it back. Prompto had been sending regular updates to Noctis, and had informed them that he’d stopped replying at about three, so Ignis hoped he’d fallen asleep and there’d be nothing standing in the way of him and his own bed. He’d all but passed out during the scan, and wasn’t entirely sure how he’d managed to make it back on his own two feet, even leaning heavily on Gladio. He didn’t think he could remember the whole journey. Perhaps Gladio had picked him up and carried him at one point.  
  
They shuffled into the embassy like kids sneaking back home after a party, pilled up for the first time and a touch too overzealously in the milestone celebration. At least, that was how he felt. He wasn’t sure about the others.  
  
Gladio point blank refused to let him bathe. ‘Unless you want me in there with you, holding you up,’ he said, and he might have been mistaken for joking if his tone hadn’t been so angry. ‘Trust me, cracking your head open in the shower is not what you want on your obituary.’ Ignis didn’t know whether to curse him or not; on one hand, he was filthy. Blood caked more of his skin than it didn’t. On the other hand, he was reasonably sure that Gladio’s prediction of cracking his head open would turn out to be correct. He settled with washing his hands and face, and bracing himself for the next morning when he wouldn’t be so very tired as to care as little as he did currently.  
  
He did get Prompto to peer into Noct’s room for him, just to double check, then ended up going in himself – it was eight steps straight into the room then turn left then ten steps to the bed, he’d memorised that days ago – touching the covers just to make sure Noct was still there, still breathing. He was, and Ignis couldn’t stop his hand from finding Noct’s shoulder. Solid, warm. The urge to slip under the covers with him flared up like a physical ache in his chest. But no. Noct would sleep through it, but Ignis couldn’t guarantee he’d be able to wake first and get out before Noct woke in the morning, not with him in this condition. And besides, he shouldn’t get Noct’s bed dirty. Even if Noct wouldn’t care, other people would see, and that’d be rather telling of things best left untold.  
  
He half thought he might not sleep. Staying awake in bed with the stresses of the waking day running on an endless loop in his head was something that often plagued him. And the memories of the day – he could feel them just under the surface of his thoughts, hidden for now but waiting to emerge, shapeless things pushing up the turf and crawling out.  
  
It hadn’t happened. He’d had his phone and money and groceries taken, that was all.  
  
Don’t think about it, he told himself firmly, and then was unconscious not a minute after falling into his own, cold bed.


	3. Chapter 3

Normally, when Ignis woke, his switch from asleep to awake was instant, like stepping out of one room and into another. He had little concept of the in-between state that Noct spent a good deal of his mornings residing in.

That morning, when he woke, there was a fog in his head – something over his eyes – he felt filthy, he stank – he hurt all over, not just pain but the sharp warning of something terribly wrong. The smell of the room and sheets were foreign. When he tried to reach up to remove what was covering his eyes, hands grabbed his wrists and held them down.

‘Ignis!’ That was Noct’s voice, alarmed, and the alarm sent hot panic down Ignis’ throat and into his guts. He struggled to get up into sitting, trying at once to tear off what was on his face and fight away the hands now pushing him bodily down.

‘Highness,’ Ignis said, more of a ragged gasp, and curled and kicked at the person holding him, getting tangled in the bed cover. He had to get out, he had to escape, find Noct, protect Noct. Where was Noct?

‘Stop it!’ Prompto, too, and Ignis let out a sharp cry as his head protested his kicking.

‘Gladio, let go of him!’ That was Noctis, to his immediate right. ‘For fuck’s sake, stop it!’

‘He’s going to hurt himself,’ Gladio said, and grunted as Ignis kicked the person holding him, and suddenly the reality of the situation crashed down on him and Ignis let himself go limp. Humiliation burnt in his face, taking his voice.

‘Ignis, it’s fine.’ Noct’s hand touched his temple, very gently, but his tone was still distressed. ‘It’s just us, you’re safe.’

‘I–’ Ignis said, and didn’t know how to continue. He swallowed, took a couple of deep breaths, and tried to hide how they trembled. ‘Thank you. You can let go, now, Gladio.’

Gladio let go, though an echo of the force of his grip remained in Ignis’ wrists, which he rubbed absently. ‘Sorry,’ Gladio said.

‘Damn right you should be sorry,’ Noct snapped, at the same time as Prompto let out a nervous laugh.

‘Haha, wow, sorry Iggy,’ Prompto said. ‘That went wrong, we only meant to wake you up to check on you, make sure you didn’t croak it in your sleep, you know, with head injuries–’

‘He was about to scratch his damn eyes out,’ Gladio said, voice beginning to turn into a snarl.

‘Or maybe you could have just a little faith in him and not straight up attack him the second he woke?’ Noctis’ voice, too, was turning nasty.

‘So, are you okay?’ Prompto sounded desperate.

‘I didn’t attack him,’ Gladio ground out.

‘Looked that way to me.’

‘Please,’ Ignis said. ‘Don’t–’

‘I was saving him from making his injuries worse–’

‘Guys–’ Prompto, getting in one word and no more.

‘Oh, what, you mean him making his blindness _even more blind_?’

‘You know damn well what I mean! And at least I was doing something, unlike some people–’

‘Enough!’ Ignis’ voice, usually enough to break them out of their arguments, was too quiet and got swallowed.

‘What the fuck do you mean by that?’

‘I mean–’

Ignis twisted, stumbling out of the tangle of sheets and off the bed, knocking into Prompto in the process, who grabbed at him to steady him, then let go abruptly. ‘I’m going to have a shower,’ he said, and finally managed to silence them all that way.

He’d already learnt the way out of his room and to the bathroom down the hallway, but even so managed to walk half into the doorframe, stumbling out into the hallway and only just managing to hold back his swearing. No one followed him; Ignis ran a hand down the wall until he found the second door on the right. He let himself in, locking the door behind him. His heart was racing and for a second, before he swallowed it down, he thought he was going to be sick again. He swayed on the spot, dizzy.

The cold, clean smell of the bathroom seemed to clear his head a little. It was a little airy – the window must be open a small fraction. He stood up from where he’d been leaning against the sink and started undoing his shirt. Gods, had he really slept in this? That was disgusting. The fabric stuck to him as he peeled it off.

Someone knocked on the bathroom door, and Ignis paused from where he sat on the toilet, tugging off his trousers – another man’s trousers – the trousers. Never mind.

‘Ignis?’ It was Noct’s voice, so quiet as to be barely audible through the door. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have argued with Gladio.’

He sounded like a kid when he apologised like that. _I’m very sorry, I shouldn’t have done the thing; it was bad of me for these reasons. I promise I’ll try very hard not to do it again._ ‘It’s fine,’ Ignis made himself say. ‘It’s been a trying time for all of us.’ It was a trite response and they both knew it, but he couldn’t think of anything better.

‘I have some clean clothes; you left without them,’ Noctis said, after a moment. ‘Can I come in? I thought, if you wanted any help...’

There was a bathtub – a rather large one, if his memory served. Ignis took a shaky breath and thought of sitting with his back pressed against Noctis’ chest, and Noctis’ hands washing him, warm water and soap and Noctis’ skin on his skin–

‘Thank you,’ Ignis said, ‘but I should be fine. If you could leave the clothes outside, please.’

The silence stretched on for long enough that Ignis started to think that Noctis had already left, until: ‘Right. No problem.’ The sound of movement, retreating down the corridor.

Sitting there, in the silence that followed, shame crept up on Ignis and wormed its way into him, settling in his chest, hot and heavy. He should have let Noct in, but it was too late now. It didn’t matter that his skin felt close to crawling with revulsion at the thought of being touched. He should be able to get over that, or ignore it at the very least. He should have let Noct help, but it was too late, now. Ignis pulled the trousers off the rest of the way and dropped them in the laundry basket, hesitantly finding his way with outstretched arms to the shower. Misery churned in his gut. He was a failure in the little things as well as the big ones, apparently.

The water wasn’t safe for drinking but the embassy was in an area where the infrastructure had survived more or less intact. The hot water and soap stung his elbows, palms and knees, his lip and the back of his head, his wrists and one ankle, little embers of pain being fanned back into life. Open scratches and scrapes he hadn’t realised he had, perhaps. He had to be careful not to get the bandage across his left eye wet, which made washing his hair and face difficult.

He thought the shower would make himself feel better, and whilst it was a true relief to be clean again, it was, otherwise, rather underwhelming. He still felt tired, sore, overheated and unpleasantly foggy. His head was pounding. He dried himself off, wrapping the towel around his waist and waiting for a moment by the door, listening, before working himself up to opening it and reaching out to find and grab the neat pile of clothes Noct had left. Back behind the locked door, sorting his clothes – this was his shirt, label and seams on the outside, he’d somehow turned it inside-out; here were his trousers, his belt – he wondered if he did have open cuts, and whether they were bleeding or not, and if he was going to get blood all over everything. He tried to feel for it, dabbing at any liquid he found and seeing if more welled up or if it was just water, but though his fingertips soon became sticky he couldn’t find the damn source.

He was starting to get cold, standing around with just a towel around his waist, and he could tell that these clothes Noct had left him, remembering the cut and fabric of them, were black. If he did bleed on them then at least it wouldn’t noticeably stain. He’d just have to ask Prompto, if he hadn’t already left.

Prompto had, back on the first day after Leviathan, tied some dental floss around the neck of Ignis’ toothbrush. On the third day Ignis had worked out it was easiest to squeeze the toothpaste onto his palm first, rather than try aim for the toothbrush and end up getting too much, too little, or missing entirely. Each extra step, now, felt like a trial.

Outside the bathroom the halls were quiet. Ignis paused. If anyone were around he couldn’t hear them. He ought to rest – the sooner he shrugged off this concussion the better, even if they weren’t actively moving for the moment.

Only, his blindness limited him far more than a concussion ever would, and that wouldn’t heal, and what did a concussion matter in the face of that?

Footsteps behind him and Ignis turned. ‘Noct’s sleeping again,’ Prompto said, from a little way off. ‘Gladio went out, said he’d be back in the evening some time.’

‘Ah,’ Ignis said. ‘Thank you.’

‘No problem.’ Prompto sounded subdued, and Ignis reckoned it wasn’t so not to wake Noctis. ‘You, um,’ Prompto said. ‘You’ve still got some… you know, blood. On your face. And hair.’

‘Damn,’ Ignis said, mildly. He reached up to run his fingers through his hair, as if simply finding the offending substance would solve the problem.

‘To your left,’ Prompto said. ‘No, I mean, my left. Sort of above your ear but forwards a bit.’

Ignis let out a huff of faint laughter and dropped his hand. ‘I think I’d best try with some water,’ he said, and turned back to the bathroom.

‘Hey.’ Prompto, from the sounds of it, all but ran the few steps around him to stand at his side. ‘You know, I could wash it for you. If you wanted, that is. I just thought, it might be easier since I can, uh. See.’

Ignis hesitated. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’m sure just a wet flannel would do the trick, no need to wash it all over again. But if you’re offering, it would certainly help.’

‘Yes!’ Prompto dragged out the word into a triumphant battle-cry before dashing off back down the corridor. ‘You wait here, I’ll grab a chair, we might as well do it in the bathroom.’

Ignis waited. Prompto’s enthusiasm and energy had the curious effect of either being exhausting or uplifting – now, it seemed the fates smiled down on him, because Ignis felt his heart rise a little at the cheerful clatter of Prompto grabbing a chair from the dining room and hauling it back with him, settling it in the bathroom with the click of wood on tile.

‘Aaand, welcome to Prompto’s Salon! Finest in all of Accordo!’

Forcing down a smile, Ignis let himself be led to the chair and sat down. ‘If you come at my hair with any scissors,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid the outcome will be regrettable.’

‘Hey! I’ve always thought I’d be a good hairdresser!’ Prompto put on his fake wounded voice as the tap began to run.

The shuffling sound of Prompto directly behind him saved him from it being too much of a surprise, but Ignis still flinched a little as Prompto’s hand, covered in a hot, wet cloth, landed on top of his head. ‘Somehow, I doubt that,’ he said.

‘Dude! Uncalled for! Whatever, now I am thinking about it, I reckon I’d do pretty well. Right? Prompto, hairdresser extraordinaire!’

Prompto was rubbing at his hair in a similar way to how he’d rub a mark off the Regalia’s paintwork, and the jolting of his head back and forth was sending needles of pain down Ignis’ neck. He made a noise in the back of his throat. ‘A little more gentle, if you would, Hairdresser Extraordinaire.’

‘Sorry! Sorry!’ Prompto’s hand left Ignis’ head, leaving the flannel behind. He returned to pick it up after a second, and, going by the sounds of the running water, rinse it out. His voice, Ignis thought, was strained, the good-natured energy collapsing in on itself.

Should he say something? How could he carry on the conversation, bring back that comic relief they’d been hiding in? He didn’t know how; Gladio or Noct had always done it before.

The flannel returned, moving slowly and gently over Ignis’ hair. Prompto rinsed it out again, then, with a small noise of warning, ran it down Ignis’ face, rubbing lightly at his right eyebrow. His right hand was on Ignis’ shoulder, and the warm weight of it was a comfort, anchoring him into the room and out of the black void in which he’d been wandering.

‘Almost done,’ Prompto said. The tap ran again, the flannel disappearing then appearing. The urge to tell him to wring it out more played on Ignis’ tongue – the flannel was dripping, far more wet than necessary, and he was getting more of a soaking than he’d intended – but he held it back. No point in needless criticism.

Sudden pain on the back of head and Ignis hissed through his teeth, jerking his head forward.

‘Shit! Sorry,’ Prompto yelped, yanking both hands back, though the one on his shoulder quickly returned. ‘Though seriously, woah, I did not think human heads came in that shape. You hiding a chocobo egg in all that hair or something?’

Igis reached up to run his own fingertips over the lump gracing the back of his head, just above where spine met skull. It was very prominent, now that he was paying proper attention to it. There was a scab on the topmost surface of it, gluing his hair into little clumps.

‘It’s certainly no yolk,’ Ignis said, and despite the rather abysmal attempt was rewarded with a loud burst of laughter. A little too loud; his smile faded when Prompto’s laugh strangled itself into silence.

‘It’d all been going so well, huh,’ Prompto said, after a long moment. A wet sound – the flannel being dropped into the sink. ‘And now, it’s all wrong.’

‘We’ll manage,’ Ignis said, and put a hand on Prompto’s, where it lay on his shoulder.

‘Will we, though?’ Prompto’s voice was small. ‘First it was all of Insomnia – my parents, and school, the arcade, and Noct’s place, and I mean, it was _all of Insomnia_ – then Luna, and you, your eyes, and Noct and Gladio are always fighting, and… I just can’t see how it’s not going to keep getting worse and worse.’ He laughed, small and a little desperate. ‘When we set off, that first bit, I thought I’d never been happier in my life. And now it’s gone and I don’t think it’s gonna come back.’

Ignis didn’t have an answer to that, so he squeezed Prompto’s hand; to his dismay, Prompto started to sniffle, then cry.

‘I’m sorry,’ Prompto said, and Ignis thought he could hear his attempt at a smile even through the tears. ‘I shouldn’t be such a cry-baby. Especially not to you. Here I am trying to be useful and this is what happens.’

‘No,’ Ignis said. ‘We’ve all lost a lot. More than enough to cry over. Don’t bottle it up, or you’ll end up like one of us, sticks up our arses, always fighting about stupid things.’

Prompto laughed, a sudden burst of sound. ‘I – I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that,’ he said, then started to cry fully, openly. ‘Wait, hold on.’ He barely got the words out between sobs, but a towel appeared on Ignis’ head, gently smoothing over his hair.

‘Thank you,’ Ignis said. The weight of Prompto’s hands disappeared. Ignis didn’t think he could remember having ever heard Prompto cry, before. It was a more open, breathier, drier sound to Noctis’ crying, back when they’d been younger and Noct had cried in front of Ignis. Less tears and snot and more whistling gasps. More muffled.

Ignis turned, reaching out, but Prompto must have stepped back because his hand found nothing in the space behind him.

‘I’m fine,’ Prompto said, voice hitching, ‘Just... gimme a sec.’

If he’d not been blind he’d have turned and pretended to be distracted by something, perhaps even made to leave the room. As it was Ignis hesitated before turning and sitting forward, hands going up to towel his hair dry.

Slowly, Prompto’s tears began to quieten and his breathing smooth.

‘That was kind of embarrassing, huh,’ Prompto said, after another minute, only slightly tremulously. ‘Promise you won’t tell the others? But, you know, thank you.’

‘I promise. And any time, Prompto. I mean it.’

‘Yeah. Thanks. And, well, the same. I mean, if you wanted to…’ The rustle of fabric, and Ignis realised Prompto was making some kind of gesture. ‘If you can get the stick out of your ass first, that is,’ he said, with a shaky wheeze of laughter.

Ignis chuckled, surprising himself with it. ‘You’re not going to let that go, are you.’

‘Never,’ Prompto said. Ignis turned to smile up in his direction, and ignored the way his chest ached and ached.

Prompto left after that, presumably to recover what little dignity he kept on himself, though not until he’d made sure Ignis was safely back in his room, and the chair was returned to the dining room – though the latter only at Ignis’ prompting. It was easy, Ignis realised as he stood in the middle of his room, to slip in and out of normality. Now he was left on his own to linger in the dark, half-there and half-not, like a ghost. The tight feeling in his chest returned, twisted up painfully.

He felt his way around the walls, wanting to lie down and settling with the high-backed armchair in the corner. The corner of the room felt safer than the more comfortable sofa in the middle. No way of sneaking up behind him. It was out of the way of the window, which meant the loss of the feel of sunlight on him, prickling heat, and also no breeze, but the sounds from outside were slightly quieter as well.

Ignis leant his head against the chair where the back curved round to the sides. His eye was itching, gritty and painful. There was a clock on the mantelpiece, but short of taking it apart and feeling where the hands were, he couldn’t read it. He should have asked Prompto the time, but he could hardly go bother him now.

If he had his phone he could have got Prompto to turn on the voice activation and use that to check the time. He’d left his phone at the house, presumably, unless it had been taken from him in the very beginning by someone who had then left.

To leave it behind had been thunderously stupid, though there was nothing he could do about it now. It would incriminate him, without doubt, in the murder of those men, whilst blood samples could easily have been obfuscated. That he had their phones–

Where were their phones? Ignis sat up abruptly and ignored the pain slicing behind his eyes. He’d put them in the trouser pockets, but they hadn’t been there when he’d undressed to shower. Had Gladio taken them when he’d carried him back? Or before he’d been woken in the morning? How could he have not remembered them until now?

And if Gladio had taken them, why hadn’t he said anything? Why would he take them in the first place?

Perhaps he merely dropped them somewhere on their journey back. It was possible for one or two, maybe, but all four?

Ignis got up, as much pushing himself out of the chair with his hands than anything else, and waited a second for the dizziness to pass. Then he went to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and rooting through the laundry basket. Here were the trousers, easily distinguished by their crustiness. No phones. He tipped out the rest of the dirty clothes. They weren’t loose in the basket either.

He put the clothes back, then pressed his forehead against the cold tile of the walls. His head wouldn’t stop pounding and he needed to think. His hair was still dripping down his neck and onto his face.

If Gladio, Prompto or Noct had found them, just seeing four phones they didn’t recognise, they would have returned them to him with questions on why he had them. Unless they’d found them and didn’t realise they were his. Had they found them but hadn’t wanted to bother him and simply put them away somewhere? Had they looked on the phones and found the photos..?

He couldn’t tell. He didn’t know. He didn’t think that any of them had acted like if they’d seen the photos, but how sure of that could he be? He could barely think. He couldn’t see.

He couldn’t very well search the apartment, even were Prompto and Noct out of the way. And if he asked after the phones then he was only inviting questions he couldn’t answer.

Ignis returned to his bedroom, feeling around in the covers of the bed in case the phones had slipped out of his pockets during the night and were still there. They weren’t, nor were they on the floor around the bed. The bed must be filthy, given his state when he’d slept in them the previous night, so he removed and folded up the sheets as best he could. There had been a housekeeper, but she hadn’t turned up since Leviathan’s summoning. A maid came in every evening, now, to stock the fridge and exchange dirty laundry for fresh, and beyond that they were left to their own devices.

He could tell that the sheets weren’t folded neatly, but his second attempt went no better. Ignis stood at the foot of the bed, holding the uneven corners and wondering whether he should bother trying a third time; a noise, the creak of his door, made him flinch, just slightly. He dropped the sheets and turned.

‘Hey,’ Prompto said, awkward. ‘Sorry. Me again.’

Only Prompto. His heart was still beating uncomfortably fast. ‘Hello,’ he said, wiping his forehead with the back of one hand where his hair had made it damp. ‘Have you need of anything? Is it lunch time, yet?’

‘Dude, it’s still like nine, you haven’t even had breakfast yet.’ Prompto came into the room and flopped down on the sofa, groaning in satisfaction. ‘This is totally not fair, your couch is way comfier than mine.’

Ignis sat down on the end of the bed and wondered if Prompto was being loud for his sake. If Prompto was hovering because of the blindness or if he was just bored. That was true he hadn’t had breakfast; he hadn’t been hungry at all. Perhaps he could have some toast. He didn’t think he could stomach anything else.

‘I’m sure they’re all the same,’ he said. ‘But you’re welcome to swap rooms, if you’d prefer.’

‘And have to move all my junk? No way.’

Another break, stretching out, filled with the quiet sound of fidgeting. Little thumps, soft scrapes of fabric on fabric. Presumably Prompto had come in for a reason. His unwillingness to divulge it meant it was unlikely to be a happy one.

Maybe he just wanted company. He didn’t have much choice for that, with Noct resting and Gladio out.

‘I’ve been watching you,’ Prompto said, abruptly, like the words were something he’d been hesitating to hand over but then ended up dropping them on the floor instead. ‘Haha, wow, that sounds mega creepy, doesn’t it? Legit stalker words. Or shady government guy. Hey, Ignis, you haven’t said that, have you? You’d be good at it.’ He broke off for long pause, in which Ignis had to refrain from asking him to get to the point. ‘Sorry. That was… sorry. I keep saying that stuff! ...I just meant watching to make sure you don’t need any help, or anything. Because it’s not like... ‘ The sound of shifting. ‘Never mind. But anyway, I put them in the drawer in your bedside table. The phones, I mean. That’s what you were looking for, right? After you’d gone to sleep, you were tossing all over the place and you’d kicked your covers off, I just saw them lying around on the sheets and thought they looked real uncomfortable to sleep on so I moved them… I wasn’t groping you or anything, I swear.’

Several revelations, and Ignis couldn’t decide what, exactly, he thought about any of them. A pause, dragging out, and Prompto’s next words, reluctant, quiet. ‘Those weren’t your pants, were they?’

It felt like a giant hand had wrapped around his chest, squeezing. He couldn’t answer. He could barely breathe.

‘I don’t think anyone else noticed.’ Prompto said. The thumping noise again. ‘Gladio didn’t seem to and I’m pretty sure he would have said something if he had. Noct only saw you for a second this morning, so. They’re pretty similar to yours; it wasn’t that obvious. I won’t tell anyone. If you don’t want me to.’

At once Prompto sounded very young, and also old – he was the one with the information, the comforting words, not Ignis, and for a single moment Ignis was lightheaded with the relief of that role, and gratitude towards this man he’d barely appreciated until now. Then the reality of the situation came crashing down and he had to swallow to clear his throat before answering. ‘I see.’ He couldn’t manage any more than that.

Prompto laughed nervously. ‘This is awkward again, isn’t it? I don’t really know what happened, yesterday, but I figured you’re the brains, so I’m gonna just go with what you’re doing, right?’

He did know, Ignis thought distantly. Not all of it, but he certainly had the baseline understanding. He was just going to deny it for as long as Ignis did.

He was a good kid. A good friend. Noct was lucky.

And nothing had happened anyway.

 

* * * * * *

 

An hour later, alone again after he’d gently shooed Prompto away, Ignis knocked on Noctis’ bedroom door.

‘Noct?’

Inside the room, the sound of shifting covers and the soft noise of Noctis humming a confirmation. Ignis opened the door and stood in the doorway, facing towards where he knew the bed was.

‘You didn’t have breakfast. Are you hungry?’ The words came out of his mouth before he could stop them, entirely automatic.

‘A little,’ Noctis said, still half-asleep.

‘I’ll see if I can hunt down someone and ask about something to tide you over until lunch,’ Ignis said, trying to keep his voice smooth. ‘Do you have any preferences?’

A silence. ‘No, it’s fine,’ Noctis said, finally. ‘I’m not that hungry; I can wait.’

‘Of course. Was there anything else…?’

‘Come here?’ Noct’s voice was cautious now he was more awake. Ignis counted the eight then ten steps to Noctis’ bed, then skirted around the outside of it to reach the head. He startled as a warm hand found his, Noct’s fingers lacing between his unresponsive ones. A tug onto the bed.

It wasn’t an order. Even had it been, they both knew that Ignis could and did refuse Noctis’ orders on the basis that they were regularly bad ideas, and it hadn’t caused any major problems yet.

It wasn’t an order but Ignis wished it had been, because then he could refuse it on a professional basis. This was an invitation – this was his duty not to his job and the crown but his friendship, their love, and all of a sudden Ignis felt cold, and sick, and his heart was yammering away in his throat like it was trying to escape. He couldn’t do it. He was useless, after all. He couldn’t do anything for Noct, not now and not in the future, because despite what placating noises the doctors were making he knew he’d never not be blind.

‘Is it me? Something I did?’ Noct said. His voice had an ironic colour to it.

Ignis couldn’t speak past his heart in his throat, so he shook his head, short and rapid movements that sent shivers of pain down his neck.

Noct made a sound, half-way to a snort. ‘Your face, right now,’ he said. Ignis had no answer to that, and stood there as Noctis withdrew his hand. ‘I’m going to sleep,’ Noct said. ‘You should go back to your room, rest. Wasn’t that what the doctors said to do?’

‘Yes, Highness,’ Ignis murmured, and turned back to his ten then eight steps, only he’d forgotten that it was based off the end of Noctis’ bed, not the head of it; he almost walked straight into the wall, and had to trace it back to the door, which he shut quietly behind him.

His hands were still but he felt like he was shaking as he made his slow way back to his room, finding and lowering himself down into the corner armchair. His organs inside his ribcage felt like they were vibrating. He wanted to be sick. The cold was gone and now he felt far too hot. He couldn’t even protect Noct from whatever untruths he must be telling himself about this all.

He thought of Prompto, and that guilt made it all worse. Prompto might be exactly what he needed – unasked for, overlooked and unappreciated until now – but Noct was the one he wanted.

It was fine. Or, it was very far from fine, but it was expected. He couldn’t do a single thing for Noct, so he should just get used to disappointing him until it had to be fine. Better to have backed out when he did than half-way through. And if he had caught something, he told himself – caught something during the thing that hadn’t happened – then the very last thing he wanted was pass it on to Noct. Even with protection it was still too risky.

It was sensible and to be expected but it still hurt, more than anything else. He served Noctis – it was what he did, and what he did defined him, had shaped his entire life thus far, and made him who he was. That’s what he was, that’s what he did, all of it. And if he couldn’t serve Noct, then who was he, any more?


	4. Chapter 4

'D’you blame him for what happened?'  
  
Ignis had just started to get used to not reflexively turning his head to try and find whoever was speaking to him. Prompto's question, asked out of the blue, made his head snap around.  
  
'Of course I don't,' he said.  
  
'Then why are you letting him think it?'  
  
Ignis turned to face forwards again, head tilted down. He didn’t have an answer, or, not a good one, anyway.  
  
The sound of Prompto gesturing; for all the effort he put into catering to Ignis’ needs, he still gestured a lot. Ignis had learnt to tell when he was doing it, but the difference between specific gestures eluded him. ‘He’s my friend,’ Prompto said, still gesturing. ‘My best friend. And… I don’t know how to help both of you.’  
  
‘I can’t give him what he wants,’ Ignis said, to the floor.  
  
‘Have you asked him what he wants? Because I’m pretty sure he doesn’t like you just ‘cos you cook and clean and fight.’  
  
‘I would prefer if we didn’t talk about this.’  
  
‘So you’re just going to let him be miserable, because you don’t wanna talk about it?’  
  
‘Prompto, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’  
  
Prompto made a sound, uncharacteristically harsh, and left.  
  
Ignis buried his face in his hands. His head was pounding, the sharp pain behind his left eye radiating outwards. Prompto was right, which was the worst thing – he was being unnecessarily cruel to Noct, who was already suffering. But what could he do? Even if he told Noct that it wasn’t his fault – which Noct already knew, logically speaking, even if he didn’t understand it emotionally – nothing else was fixed. The Lady Lunafreya was still dead, Insomnia still destroyed and Regis dead, and himself still blind. Gladio was still angry – furious – and Prompto still a nervous, self-conscious shadow of his former self.  
  
That morning he’d woken from a dream where he’d had his eyesight back, and saw Noct again. For a split-second on waking he’d been unbearably glad that he’d healed after all.  
  
He’d had that dream several times. He wished no one had told him he might regain his vision, because when he woke, lying in bed, still blind, even beyond the disappointment he couldn’t help but hope for next time. Maybe, that hope said, tomorrow morning. Maybe not today but tomorrow, or the next day. It was so tempting, to hope. He wanted to; to lie in bed and think of being able to take that small shred of good news and give it to Noct. To go to him and tell him something good, and see him smile.  
  
It was poisonous, but sometimes he was so tired, so exhausted from pain, he could not stop himself. What would it be like, to see Noct’s smile as he told him?  
  
He ought to get up and practice walking with the new stick he’d been given that morning, a gift from Altissia, significantly nicer one than the one he’d lost. It was easier to stay sitting, thinking of Noct’s expression as Ignis told him the good news. Ignis’ heart swelled with the notion of happiness. It would solve so many problems. If only. If only.  
  
There were footsteps in the hallway: Gladio, who’d remained at the apartments today. Was he coming to check on Ignis after Prompto had left, or was he just passing on his own business? And what he would say about Ignis sitting in this chair doing nothing, instead of all the productive things he could be doing? But Gladio wouldn’t say any of it, because, Ignis knew, his blindness terrified Gladio.  
  
Not that he’d ever admit it. But it was clear proof of how fragile they all were. How easily it could have been him.  
  
Gladio left, thumping down the corridor, and Ignis felt himself relax without having realised he’d tensed in the first place. Perhaps he was being uncharitable. Gladio still only wanted what Ignis wanted, only they were coming at it from different angles. To Gladio, Ignis was the obstacle they – Gladio, Noct and Prompto – needed to surmount, if only emotionally speaking.  
  
The skin under his bandages was itching uncomfortably and Ignis laced his hands together in his lap to stop himself from scratching. He’d be able to take it off in another few days. It had been over week since the attack, now, and the results for his scans still hadn’t come through. It was more or less redundant by now; his concussion symptoms were mostly gone, or entirely gone and what remained merely symptoms of his prior injuries. If there’d been something more serious then he would know of it.  
  
Too bad. It would have been better if he’d died in his sleep, bleeding into his brain.  
  
The thought stuck, for all that he didn’t mean it. Mostly didn’t. It carried with him as he listened to the radio – still nothing on any murders, but then, there was a lot else to cover – and showered. The thought itself, and its persistence, annoyed him. He should be above thinking like that.  
  
He still could be bleeding into his brain. Unlikely, but still possible.  
  
He had a spare phone. He’d packed everyone spare phones, but short of using the voice recognition to tell the time, he didn’t use it. Since that first instance Prompto hadn’t mentioned the four phones still sitting in his bedside table, nor bring up what he’d surmised. The trousers went missing, not returned with the rest of his laundry, and Ignis could only assume Prompto had taken and disposed of them.  
  
He was too on-edge to sit down for longer than a minute or two. He went and double-checked the phones. Still there. They must have all ran out of battery days ago. Probably a good thing, in case anyone tried to track them, even for innocent reasons.  
  
Noct was sleeping. Prompto had borrowed a laptop to upload and edit his photos on. Gladio was exercising in the study, having moved all of the furniture to the sides of the room to give him space. Standing in the corridor outside, Ignis’ headache beat dully behind his eyes as he listened to the sound of Gladio breathing, harsh and rhythmic. He’d left his stick behind in his room, trying half-heartedly to convince himself it had been by accident.  
  
Entering the room without knocking, Ignis stood in front of the door. Gladio exhaled and stopped whatever he’d been doing. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘You okay?’  
  
‘Yes,’ Ignis said, a barefaced lie, but not a bluff Gladio would call. ‘Yourself?’  
  
‘Fine, fine. Keeping myself busy’  
  
Pleasantries over, the conversation ground to a halt. Gladio sounded winded, Ignis realised with some surprise. How long had he been at this for?  
  
‘You have training weapons, don’t you?’ He hadn’t meant for it to come out so abrupt, but his nerves were jangling for no good reason.  
  
‘Yeah,’ Gladio said, so obviously on guard that it was almost funny. ‘Picked a few up yesterday. Why?’  
  
‘I want to spar.’  
  
A long silence. A stab of pain from Ignis’ left eye dug into his skull, then softened and melted into the ever-present headache.  
  
‘Yeah, that’s probably not a good idea, right now,’ Gladio said. ‘You’re still pretty wobbly.’  
  
From the tone of his voice Ignis knew he was trying to be political, light-hearted, like they were talking about a sprained ankle. ‘No,’ Ignis said, and again, his voice was unintentionally sharp. ‘I can manage.’  
  
Another pause. ‘All right,’ Gladio said, and crossed the room. A rustling sound, a zip, and the clack of the wooden practice weapons. ‘What do you want? There wasn’t much choice.’  
  
He listed off what he had and Ignis chose one, almost at random. His head felt hot, his heart beating hard in his chest. This was a bad idea, he knew. He wasn’t in the right frame of mind for this at all, but he couldn’t stop now.  
  
Ignis stood forward, out of the way of the door and the surrounding furniture. He held out his sword, ready, and Gladio tapped it gently to show he was likewise in position. The sound, the action, the way he was already sweating – all sent out sparks of irritation through Ignis. He lunged and was blocked, Gladio forcing the path of their swords until Ignis was overreaching, unbalanced and undefended when Gladio withdrew, and got a gentle tap on his chest for his error.  
  
Again: Ignis feinted, and thrust, Gladio parried and tapped Ignis, barely a nudge on his shoulder. ‘You’re leaving yourself wide open,’ Gladio said, and Ignis wanted to snarl, _of course I am, I can’t see where you’re attacking to defend_.  
  
Instead he thrust again, and Gladio parried, sliding to the side and letting Ignis stumble past him, and didn’t tap his back on the way even though he could have. Ignis whirled around, and the pain and dizziness and roiling in his stomach made him gag.  
  
‘You want to stop?’ Gladio’s voice was far too casual. He’d always been a terrible actor.  
  
‘No,’ Ignis said, and swung. Gladio blocked it, and let Ignis swing again, and again, parrying each time.  
  
‘Yeah, let’s stop.’ Gladio swung to lock their swords together, and Ignis’ arms trembled with the effort of simply holding his sword in position. ‘I don’t think you’re up for this.’ He sounded less winded than he had when he started. Like he was regretting this whole thing – like he pitied the fuck out of Ignis – something in Ignis snapped.  
  
‘Prove it!’ Ignis swung wildly, hard as he could, and was blocked. The force of the impact sent pain shooting up his arms. ‘Prove that I deserve to be left behind! Prove I’m not worth standing beside you–’  
  
Gladio knocked him back, harder than before, and retreated. Ignis swung and found nothing, even as he advanced until he reached the wall.  
  
‘Get a grip of yourself,’ Gladio said, from somewhere behind him, and Ignis spun around. ‘Can you even hear what you’re saying?’  
  
‘Stop hiding and fight,’ Ignis hissed as he moved towards Gladio’s voice, feet dragging, refusing to walk normally for all that he knew the room had been cleared of obstacles. ‘Or did you change your mind on whether fighting a cripple is below you?’  
  
Gladio made a disgusted noise. ‘I’m done,’ he said, and Ignis heard the clatter of the practice sword hitting the floor. ‘You need to calm the fuck down before I even think of trying this again.’  
  
‘Ah, so I’m not worth your time after all?’ Distantly, Ignis knew he was making a spectacle of himself, but he was so angry he didn’t care. Let him regret it later. He could barely stop his hands from shaking with fury.  
  
‘Gods, listen to yourself,’ Gladio said. His voice had softened and if anything that made Ignis’ anger flare all the brighter. ‘Iggy, seriously, this ain’t right. You’re freaking Prompto out. You’re freaking _me_ out.’  
  
‘Then let me have this. One fight, that’s all.’ Ignis couldn’t stop his voice from trembling. He could feel the flush of blood in his face, pulsing in his eyes. ‘Then I’ll stop.’  
  
‘No. Put that down, Iggy. We’re done. I shouldn’t have agreed to this in the first place.’  
  
Ignis lowered his practice sword; then he raised and threw it to one side, rushing forwards. Gladio was a step closer than he’d thought – he stopped short as his fists, curled protectively in front of his face, found the solid mass of Gladio’s body, stepped back and in the same movement pivoted on one heel to kick Gladio in the ribs.  
  
Gladio grunted, in pain and surprise, and caught Ignis’ right wrist as he swung to punch him. He dragged Ignis forward, off balance, and grabbed his other wrist. Ignis kneed him in the stomach, off-centre, aiming for his solar-plexus but missing as Gladio twisted away, and Gladio hooked a foot between his and sent them both to the floor, pinning Ignis down with the full weight of his body.  
  
‘Stop it,’ Gladio snarled, but suddenly there was blood rushing in Ignis’ head and white dots in his black vision and he couldn’t hear Gladio at all, couldn’t form words, all his fury collapsing into a ball of unintelligent energy that swelled and swelled behind his eyes – get out – he needed to get out but he couldn’t, he had to get out now, _now_ –  
  
The knife in his hand swept through the air in front of him, and the weight was off him. Several things happened; Ignis scrambled up as Prompto let out a shout, and Noct’s voice, from the other side of the room, called out Ignis’ name. Ignis released his knife, letting it move back into the void. The sound of running footsteps.  
  
‘Gladio?’ he said, struggling for breath. Reality hit him like ice cold water. Where was Gladio? He wasn’t – surely Gladio would have avoided that swing, like he had with every other. ‘Gladio?’ Ignis felt his hands move forwards to reach out, and pulled them back. Why wasn’t anyone replying? He could feel hysteria crawl into his skull.  
  
‘Ignis,’ Noct said, very carefully, and Ignis took a step back. He hadn’t known Noct had been in the room.  
  
In front of him, Gladio grunted. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Nicked me, that’s all.’  
  
He needed to get out, but he couldn’t remember where he was facing any more, and which way to turn to get to the door. Ignis went left, reaching out and searching the wall, stumbling right into the table they’d shifted to make space in the centre of the room. They’d moved the furniture around and he couldn’t remember how, couldn’t work out where the damned door was, and his breathing was coming in choppy pants and he just needed to get out of the room, out of the darkness, away from everyone watching him fall apart–  
  
An agonisingly long moment searching the walls and he still couldn’t find the door. No one was saying anything. Were they just standing there, watching him? Ignis reached the fireplace and knew he should know where it was with regards to the door, but standing there, he just couldn’t fucking think. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. Anything to get him out of the room.  
  
‘I–’ he said, then realised he didn’t know how to continue. Shame crushed his throat. He could feel his face burning red. He’d never felt so humiliated in his life.  
  
Well, if he’d wanted proof of his inadequacy, here it was.  
  
‘Ignis,’ Noct said in the silence that followed. ‘Are you…?’  
  
‘If someone could please direct me to the door,’ Ignis said, ‘I would be grateful.’  
  
‘Behind you,’ Prompto said. ‘Turn around, about two feet to your right, then straight ahead. Hold on.’ The sound of a piece of furniture being shoved across the carpet, then the click of the door being opened.  
  
‘Thank you,’ Ignis murmured, and turned. He was back to walking like an invalid, he thought, hands out in front of him, shuffling his feet, but at least it gave everyone more than long enough to get out of his way. After a few achingly long seconds of open space he reached the opposite wall, and then the door, and let himself out, closing the door behind him.  
  
He was shaking uncontrollably, head a cloud of pain and burning humiliation, and couldn’t manage to carry on quite yet. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but neither could be block out the sound of voices from the room behind him.  
  
‘So, I take it you see what I mean,’ Gladio said.  
  
‘It’s not…’ Prompto said, trailing off.  
  
‘Not what?’ Gladio said. ‘He worse than can’t fight, he can barely hold it together. He’s staying behind.’  
  
‘No,’ Noct said.  
  
‘Get your head out of your fucking ass,’ Gladio said. ‘I’m not having him on our side in a fight. I can’t protect you from that as well as everything else.’  
  
‘ _That_ ,’ Noct snarled, ‘is Ignis. I don’t need anyone to protect me from him and I’m not leaving him behind.’  
  
‘He’s staying behind,’ Gladio said.  
  
‘Huh, funny,’ Noct said, voice lowering into a hiss Ignis could barely hear. ‘I don’t remember you becoming king when my father died.’  
  
Silence.

Prompto was the first to leave; Ignis could tell it was him from the smell of his hair gel as he walked past. Then Gladio, breaking his stride out of the door to move to avoid Ignis as much as possible in the corridor.  
  
Inside the room, Noct began to cry: tired, subdued, too worn out to be loud or dramatic as he had been as a child.  
  
Ignis turned and traced his hands along the wall to the door. It was open a small fraction, still, and creaked open a little further when he knocked.  
  
‘Just me,’ he said, automatic, like in Insomnia and he were waiting outside the door to Noct’s bedroom.  
  
Noct made a muffled noise and stopped crying. ‘Hey,’ he said, and Ignis entered. ‘I’m – mh – over here.’  
  
Ignis turned to the voice, somewhere to his right, close by. ‘Hey,’ Noct said, again, as Ignis reached the sofa he was sitting on.  
  
His leg pressing up against the sofa’s armrest, arms crossed self-consciously, Ignis hesitated. ‘Sit down,’ Noct said, still a little stuffy-nosed. ‘For fuck’s sake, I know you’re not going to shank me or something.’  
  
Ignis sat down, as close to the arm as possible, and he couldn’t remember how long the sofa was, and how far away Noct must be.  
  
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, not quite knowing what, specifically, he was apologising for, other than the overall mess he’d made of things in the last couple of weeks. Not that a simple two-word apology was enough for that.  
  
Noct breathed out a dismissal. ‘Can I…’ he said, trailing it out into a question, and not knowing what he meant Ignis nodded.  
  
‘Of course,’ he said, and didn’t flinch as Noct linked their arms, shuffling closer until their shoulders were pressed together.  
  
‘I’m sorry you saw that,’ Ignis said in the quiet that followed, trying the apology again.  
  
‘Not sorry you did it?’ Noct said. His voice was too tired to be teasing, though Ignis knew it was a joke anyway. He still couldn’t help the way his arm tensed under Noct’s.  
  
‘It was inexcusable,’ he said, at the same time as Noct said, ‘I meant what I said.’  
  
A pause. ‘To Gladio,’ Noct said. ‘You can come with us. I won’t let him make you stay behind, if you don’t want to.’  
  
Ignis didn’t know how to answer that, so he didn’t reply.  
  
‘I shouldn’t have said you were definitely coming,’ Noct said, mumbling the words a little in the way that Ignis had always used to correct, years ago. ‘But I don’t really know what you want any more.’  
  
‘I want whatever’s best for you, Noct,’ Ignis said, automatically. ‘No, don’t argue,’ he said, as Noct made a noise of protest. ‘If you wanted the truth of what I want, that’s it. It’s just – I don’t know how I can achieve that.’  
  
Noct didn’t reply. Ignis gripped his own leg, just above the knee, trying to ground himself.  
  
‘Do I stay behind, keep myself safe and not endanger you or hold you back by needing to be looked after? Or do I stay with you, and even if I’m not as useful as I was, perhaps I’m still a little bit useful. Surely, I can still support you somehow. Which is the better option? It’s my job, my duty as your advisor, to know these things. But… I don’t know.’  
  
Ignis leant his head back, sure that he should be too embarrassed for this outpour of words, but instead too wrung out to stop it. His shame and humiliation from before had sunk into the ground, saturating it. He’d forgotten how easy it was to talk to Noct. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing. I suppose that’s a mark against my usefulness. I’m in pain constantly… I’m blind. I think I always will be. There are things I haven’t told you, and I don’t know if I ever can. Just now, when I lost my temper, lost all control. How can I guarantee that will not happen again?  
  
‘If I decide to come with you and because of me you are hurt, I do not think I could ever forgive myself. If I stay I’ll have the comfort of knowing I am not there to hold you back, but little hope for happiness beyond that.’  
  
Next to him, Noct sighed and pressed a little closer, probably unconsciously. He smelt like stale sweat, the sweet muskiness of unwashed sheets. He hadn’t brushed his teeth, or styled his hair.  
  
‘Have you eaten today?’ Ignis asked.  
  
‘... No. But don’t change the topic.’  
  
‘I’ve finished my part.’  
  
‘Mmh.’  
  
They sat without speaking for a while longer. Footsteps in the corridor, the creak of the door. A moment, then the footsteps retreating.  
  
‘Prompto?’  
  
‘Yeah,’ Noct said. ‘Checking up on us, making sure there wasn’t a murder-suicide happening.’  
  
Ignis breathed out a small laugh. ‘If that was his fear, he probably should have checked in earlier.’  
  
‘Yeah. And hey, you knew it was Prompto even though he didn’t say anything.’  
  
‘Being able to tell the difference between Gladio and Prompto’s footsteps is nothing to call home about.’  
  
‘Yeah. But still.’  
  
They lapsed back into silence. Noct shifted, putting his head on Ignis’ shoulder then immediately removing it. He pulled away with his arm, trying to unlink it with Ignis’, but Ignis moved with him to stop it. After a second Noct let him.  
  
‘I’m not gonna be able to travel for a while,’ Noct said. ‘We’re both messes right now, huh. But… you can still learn to get around and everything, right? You have some time now. Prompto says you’ve got loads better even in the last few days.’  
  
‘Noct,’ Ignis said. ‘What do you want?’  
  
‘What about?’  
  
‘Whether I stay behind or not.’  
  
‘Does it matter?’  
  
‘Yes.’  
  
It was a while before Noct answered. ‘I don’t want you to get hurt again. But I want you to stay with us. You’re part of the team. And... I’ll miss you.’  
  
‘Yes,’ Ignis said, softly. ‘That too.’  
  
‘On the topic of what people want,’ Noct said after a slight pause, clearly trying to make it light-hearted but failing. ‘I don’t know if you wanna break up, but if you do, that’s fine. I mean, it’s not, and I don’t really get why, but. You know. I get… if you want to.’  
  
Ighis reached over with his free hand, tracing his hand up from Noct’s shoulder to cup his cheek and pull their heads together. ‘I don’t,’ he said, low, into the small space between them. ‘I’m sorry. I have been distant, I know. But not because of you.’  
  
‘Yeah,’ Noct said, and burrowed his face down into the crook of Ignis’ neck, his hand not entwined with Ignis’ reaching out and tugging Ignis in closer by the waist. ‘Good.’ Something uncomfortable sparked in Ignis, a tension and nauseous feeling. He held Noct a little tighter.  
  
Perhaps five minutes went by before he realised that Noct was falling asleep. Ignis pulled back and Noct made a noise of sleepy protest.  
  
‘Bed,’ Ignis said. ‘And I’ll find you something to eat.’  
  
‘Ugh. Fine.’  
  
It was almost like normal, though Ignis would have made Noct stay up and eat at the table, rather than in bed. Noct led Ignis out of the room and into the kitchen with their arms still linked, then shuffled off wordlessly to his bedroom.  
  
Ignis stood in the kitchen, braced with his hands on the counter next to the fridge.  
  
Standing on the ground, so drenched with shame he was sinking into it. He needed to apologise to Gladio, and properly.  
  
No. Not yet. He needed to find something for Noct to eat first.  
  
Ignore it. Focus on the task at hand.  
  
There had been, a couple of days ago, a marked improvement on the quality – and quantity – of food being brought to them. Perhaps a local warehouse that had been damaged was now restored and supplying local businesses again. Or perhaps another main road into Altissia had been cleared and was allowing for more produce to be brought in. Ignis had got Prompto to tell him all of the things they had, on the morning it had arrived, though he hadn’t tried to cook anything and no one had asked him to.  
  
He would try and make something simple for Noct. Something very simple.  
  
There was onions, garlic and floury potatoes (‘What kind?’ he’d asked Prompto. ‘Huh? They’re potatoes.’ ‘Yes, but what does it say on the bag?’), rice, spaghetti and several different grains. Tinned tomatoes, of a few kinds, and some jars of pasta sauces that Prompto had been steadily working through in his efforts to cook for them all. Fresh bread, a plain white loaf. Eggs, some various jams, caster sugar and flour and other baking necessities. Some sachets of chicken stock, some packets of fresh herbs, as well as jars of dried ones. Vegetables, but never mind them, for now at least. Fruit, including apples, grapes and cherries. Bottles of oil, vinegar and other sauces. Bacon, pork belly, and beef skirt. Ignis ran his hands over the ingredients, reminding himself of what was there. Cheese – a somewhat uninspiring, strong yet flat tasting hard cheese, and also a grittier, nutty cheese he was not familiar with.  
  
If the bread had been something more substantial he could’ve done a decent sandwich. A pasta dish? They’d been eating pasta for every meal at this point. Of the meat, the bacon would be the easiest to, if not cook well, then at least avoid cooking badly. Cherries would work with the bacon. One of the nuttier grains would balance that out, and be amenable to Noct, especially with all the bacon fat mixed in. The parsley needed using up, though there wasn’t quite enough of it, but never mind. No fresh lemon, but a bottle of lemon juice. And no sherry vinegar, but the apple vinegar with a pinch of sugar might work for an undiscerning palate such as Noct’s. They might have sherry, but it was too late to ask Prompto to raid the liquor cupboard now.  
  
Ignis crouched by the bin, peeling the onion into it, then searched around for a chopping board. Slicing the onion thinly was achingly slow work, but at least he had a decent knife. He put the sliced onion in a bowl with the bottled lemon juice, vinegar and sugar.   
  
Finding a pan, filling it with water and putting it on to boil with a sachet of stock was simple enough, though it took an absurd amount of time, and the use of the instant powder in what amounted to a fully stocked kitchen irked him. When he could hear it bubbling, in went the hulled wheat, managing to splash some of the water over the side of the pan, where it sizzled. He didn’t know how to work the timer on the oven – just mashing buttons wouldn’t work – so he’d just have to keep checking on it.  
  
More bacon than should be desirable – it would drown out the other flavours – but Noct liked bacon, and didn’t care much about the delicate balance between nutty grain and sharp onion. The pan started to sizzle, spitting on Ignis’ hands. The wheat boiled over and Ignis struggled with the temperature controls, unable to remember which dial was for which flame, and which way to turn it to turn it down. Then, as he was distracted, the bacon started to burn and Ignis swore at it as he removed the pan from the hob altogether.  
  
No, this was fine. Ignis put the pan down on a tea-towel and crouched in front of the oven. It was gas, so he should be able to hear whether it was on high or low. There: on low, and the wheat as well. And testing the wheat, just another few minutes.  
  
Back in the cupboards – he couldn’t tell if the colander's holes would be too big for the wheat grains, so he found a sieve instead. Wheat drained, in a bowl. The bacon was about done; Ignis fished the slices out carefully, laying them on paper towels to cut. It would have been neater to cut them before cooking, but he doubted he’d have been able to cook them evenly, that way. The wheat in the bacon pan, now switched off, and the bacon pieces added back in. It was soothing, cooking, even when it was going wrong. Ignis raised a hand to push up his glasses, and caught himself only in the last second.  
  
Halving the cherries and removing the stones took far more effort than Ignis thought it had any rights to, and made just as much mess. The onion slices weren’t as soft as they was meant to be, half not sliced nearly thin enough, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. The cherries, onions and a couple of spoonfuls of the vinegar mixture went in with the bacon and wheat, and Ignis tore the parsley instead of cutting it. It meant that most the pieces were large enough to easily pick out, but never mind. His head was aching again, enough to make him dizzy.  
  
As he mixed it all up and spooned it into the bowl, shaving some of the nutty cheese on top, it occurred to him that he probably should have made enough for Prompto and Gladio as well. Too late now. He wasn’t sure he could manage another meal; perhaps he could try make them something tomorrow. He’d have to assure Prompto that he wasn’t angry with him before that, too.  
  
Ignis held the bowl, warm but cooling down in his hands. It probably looked a mess. It was a good thing it was a salad and not meant to be plated neatly. It smelt all right. He should taste it, but he didn’t think he could stomach so much as a mouthful of water.  
  
Speaking of which – if Noct hadn’t eaten, he probably hadn’t drank anything either. Ignis put down the bowl and found a bottle of water, putting it in a glass to take to Noct, rather than pouring it in the kitchen and risk spilling it everywhere. After a moment he got another couple of bottles, holding them under one arm.  
  
He should stop wasting time. Even if the salad was fine cold, the dressing would make it go soggy.  
  
Noct’s room was furthest from the kitchen, which meant that he had to pass Gladio and Prompto’s rooms. If they were in there – he couldn’t tell – what would they think of him?  
  
Ignore that thought. Ignore the shame under his feet. Do one thing at a time, cross each bridge when he came to it.  
  
Noct was asleep, not answering when Ignis knocked on his door. That was predictable; Ignis didn’t know how long he’d spent cooking, but it must have been a while. An hour, perhaps. He entered, eight steps in then ten steps left, then trace the bed until he reached the small bedside table at the head.  
  
Noct was curled up in the middle of the bed, and woke under protest as Ignis found his shoulder and shook it gently.  
  
‘I brought you some food,’ he said, entirely unnecessarily, and held out the bowl for Noct to take, which he did.  
  
The sound of the spoon scraping the bowl, but nothing beyond that.  
  
‘Try to eat some of it, at least,’ Ignis said. ‘Before it goes soggy.’  
  
‘Yeah,’ Noct said, a small sigh. ‘Thanks, Ignis.’ He sounded like he was halfway back to sleep again.  
  
‘You’re welcome,’ Ignis said. He hesitated, then turned and left.


End file.
